Curiosity Killed The Dog
by MaidenofIron157
Summary: Someone is dropped off at 221b. And it gives Holmes a startle.
1. Not an Irregular

*So. Hi there. This is what I blame on my Sherlockie mood. That's right – I have a 'Sherlockie mood'. That doesn't even exist. Fear me. Be afraid. But, please read this? I need some love!*

Curiosity Killed the Dog

Sherlock Holmes was curious. He was never confused, rarely perplexed, and even more rare, puzzled. His deducing skills granted him with such premises to go by, of which he prided himself on in private circumstances. He was not a selfish man. Usually. And certainly not greedy – for anything other than the truth and knowledge, of course.

Sherlock Holmes was curious. Dr. John Watson knew as much. The two had been in the cluttered sitting room, seated in their respectable armchairs. The consultive detective had been puffing out breaths of smoke from the pipe clamped between his pursed lips and plucking away at his violin to and unfamiliar and indecent mood, dark, calculating eyes unfocused and staring at something in front of him that wasn't really there. Watson, meanwhile, had been skimming through the daily paper, searching for a case difficult enough for his friend, one that would actually intrigue him. He hadn't found one.

Sherlock Holmes was curious. It took a lot for the man to become curious. He was almost always positive of everything that went on around him. It left little for the imagination, for curiosity. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had truly felt the emotion of 'curiosity'.

And so, the weak, hesitant rapping of knuckles upon the door to 221b Baker Street had sparked a surge of curiosity pulsing through Holmes' bloodstream like miniscule spiders. As Watson lowered the paper, looking up in what Holmes could only describe as schoolboy joy at the prospect of having a visitor (or, in this case, a client), the scruffy man blinked out of his reverie, shoving his intricate thoughts to some unoccupied crevice in his vast and overcrowded mind to look over at a later date.

Immediately, he began scratching down, in a mental notepad, the reasons he believed the person wouldn't use a doorbell; _It couldn't be Lestrade, although he knows the doorbell doesn't work. His knock is harder, more demanding of attention. Clarke knocks precisely four times and calls upon me before entering. Perhaps one of the Irregulars – although, they don't bother to knock. Hmm. The person may be too short to reach said broken doorbell. Or, the person is in far too much distress to bother to try to test it, hence the way the knocks sounded._

Curious, indeed. Holmes knew this was not an ordinary client – if it were a client at all.

The two of them heard the distinct _click, click, click_ of Mrs. Hudson's heels as she made her way to the door. There was an audible creak as it opened, followed by a warm, "Why, hello there, young man. Are you here to see Mr. Holmes?"

Watson shot Holmes an irritated glance, though the man ignored it, for the most part, chewing on the tip of his pipe. He knew it wasn't one of the Irregulars; they would never come here alone unless he told a specific one of them to complete a specific task and report back as soon as the information was acquired. Not only that, Mrs. Hudson was not at all fond of his little… erm… "guests". She never called them "young man". That only left said Irregulars hiring a new posse member, and even that was out of the question; they needed his permission, and he had seen neither hide nor hair of the boys for a week straight.

"Sherlock Holmes?" A pause. "Yes, please, ma'am."

Well, that settled it. It wasn't an Irregular, that much he was certain. Whoever had spoken, the child, was not, in fact, a boy. It was a girl. He could spot a well-practiced voice over from a mile away. Either the girl's parents taught her how to do so, or she taught herself (the latter of which was unlikely due to how it had fooled Mrs. Hudson, who had grown accustomed to voice overs much like Watson over the years.).

_Perhaps her parents have gone missing or have been killed, _he reasoned. _That would be a wealthy opportunity for such a young child to be out on their own in the middle of –_

His thought process was interrupted by his medical colleague. "Holmes?"

"I didn't do it!" he told the doctor, gaining a quirked brow in response. Before he could open his mouth to retort, Holmes was on his feet, tossing his violin unceremoniously onto the settee as he strode over to the doors leading to the rest of the flat.

"Holmes!" Watson had tried to lure him back, but he was already out the door.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes greeted, working a swift smile upon his lips. The landlady looked up at him, cleaning a tea cup with her rag. The little girl he had heard from before was seated at the kitchen table, swinging her legs back and forth on the stool and nibbling on one of Mrs. Hudson's homemade chocolate chunk almond cookies. Holmes would never admit it to her or Watson, but those cookies were delicious with a capital "D".

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said. She nodded to the girl, who was studying him inquisitively, much like he was her. A cap was what tucked and hid her hair away from onlookers, though he could just see the few errant tendrils of the darkest brown curls he had ever seen – other than, well… he didn't want to think about _her_ right then, but chalked it down as a theory, nonetheless.

The girl's face was narrow, shaped like a heart – so unlike the others of her age. Other than the tight fitting, pristine white male dress shirt (of which did nothing to hide her petite but firmly toned muscles, despite how old she was), the black suede vest with a silky indigo backdrop on the other side, and the pinstriped black trousers that clung to her scrawny hips with a leather belt, Holmes knew it was a girl. Her nose was round and splattered with a handful of blotches of freckles; her lips were a rosy pink in color; her skin was smooth and unflawed, though a delicate, fair color – not quite pale, but not tan, either. The shadow the brim of the cap produced blackened her eyes from view, although Holmes could still see the glint of mischief in their depths as they reflected off the sunlight beaming through the window. I was obvious to him that she was not here on clientele business. It was something else entirely.

The faint aroma of Persian perfume clouded his senses and echoed around her like some kind of aura. This caused Holmes to accept the former theory he was hoping this wouldn't have to come to, albeit reluctant. It was not like Irene to send a messenger to fetch him – let alone a five year old girl in men's clothing!

He had deduced that in a matter of six seconds.

"I will escort my guest to my room, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes nodded his gratitude as the girl hopped down off the stool, still gnawing on her cookie. Once the landlady had turned her back, the detective snatched up his own, biting off a piece and chewing it up. Then –

"_Sherlock Holmes, get out here at once!_"

Dr. Watson. Apparently, he had discovered his flat mate had been experimenting on his clothing yet again. And, if the grunts and whines emitting from the sitting room had anything to say about it, Gladstone was currently under the influence of the after affects of the stains on the fabric. An audible thump sounded (signifying to Holmes that Gladstone had dropped unconscious), followed by the stomping footfalls on the floorboards.

"Now, now! Hurry up!" he called to the girl, resulting in picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder because he believed her to be taking too long. She gripped her cap with both hands so as to make sure it didn't fall off, squirming desperately in a fretful attempt to escape. The rest of her cookie was stuffed between her lips, which she tried to eat up despite the circumstances. Holmes' own had been placed back on the platter on the table before Watson's outburst had begun. "We mustn't fall ill to the good doctor's wrath!"

"If he's a good doctor, then how come he had wrath that we mustn't fall ill to?" the girl queried once Holmes had plopped her down on his messy, unmade bed. The sheets reeked of tobacco and sweat that she knew wouldn't come out in the wash. That was probably the reason Mrs. Hudson refused to come in here, the look on her face had figured as she examined the room. It was in a state of utter catastrophe, like a hurricane had torn through it. Holmes didn't find it unorganized, though; quite the contrary. He knew where everything was, and didn't intend on cleaning it up soon.

Holmes shut and locked his bedroom door behind him, leaning his back against the wood nonchalantly, even as the thunderous footsteps moved closer and closer. He grinned calmly at her, explaining, "Dr. Watson is just the smallest bit temperamental –"

"Quit telling stories about me to clients, Holmes!" a furious voice sounded through the door, followed by vicious pounds upon the door's surface. "Fix my dog this instant!"

"Well, technically speaking, he's not only _your_ dog –"

Holmes was cut off. "He's the only bloody dog you know, Holmes! I don't care if he's both our dogs or no, get out here this instant and fix him!"

"I told you, didn't I?" Holmes began coolly, "I didn't do it –"

"You're lying!"

"I am not!" Though it was painfully obvious he was. He silently damned the fact Watson had grown used to his mannerisms since they've been living at 221b Baker Street. "Now, do go back to your business, Watson, as you well know that I have a guest present." He peered over his shoulder to the girl, who was currently laid flat on her back on the smudged – with – some – unknown – chemical bed sheets, hands covering her mouth as she relentlessly tried to smother her laughter.

Holmes heard a huff of agitation, and the crooked thump of Watson's departure. He turned back to the girl, watching as she propped herself up on her elbows, legs outstretched in a way that reminded Holmes of a cat. She was smirking lopsidedly at him with her head cocked ever so slightly to the side, jaw resting on her shoulder. It looked uncomfortable to Holmes, though she didn't seem to mind.

A moment of silence. "What a unique specimen you are, young lady." He figured if he frightened the all – to – familiar smug look from her ageless face and struck enough fear or disgust into her, she could leave without incident and go back to her mother. Hence the 'specimen' comment.

She didn't look the slightest inch surprised or horrified that he had known she was neither a female nor what he had spoken to her. In fact, she just smirked a little broader in response. Holmes upper lip twitched at the sight of it; _so much_ like her mother's. The likeness was unbelievable, even for the five year old.

Holmes merely tapped his fingertips together in thought as she spoke once again. He did not have the time to catalogue her tone or way of speaking before. Watson could be unbearably distracting at times. "So._ You're_ the great Sherlock Holmes." It was a blunt statement. The girl had a smooth, flowing voice, so like Irene's, but it was somewhat coarse in depth. He could sense the slight slur of the tongue at the "sh" sound, though the undertone was somewhat cocky, like she was knowledgeable of something he was not. And sarcastic. Very, very sarcastic. That came from Irene, too.

"Does that bother you, Miss…?" Holmes trailed off, leaving room for input.

"Adler." Even though he already knew so, Holmes' overactive mind viciously cursed. Physically, he remained positively stoic, except for the minute twitch of his brow, and allowed her to continue. "Veronica Wisteria Adler, actually." Holmes felt his eyes widen to an undetectable degree; _Wisteria was his mother's name_. "And no – it doesn't bother me. My mum told me to expect as much from you."

"I see." Holmes' tone was clenched, just like his jaw. He had been talking through his teeth.

Veronica heard it. "I can tell you're not truly appreciative of my mum." Holmes had to hold in a snort at the understatement. "But…" she drew out, "she's the one that dropped me off here in the first place."

Holmes merely raised a brow at the admittance. "I know – out of the ordinary, isn't it?" Veronica began explaining, "She was heading to the Americas, I believe she said. Something about 'dangerous' and 'potentially life threatening' business she had to deal with, you see. I was used to that, though, but the she said she couldn't take me with her. I, of course, have never been out of the continent, so I was a tick upset, not that important, you know? She bought and dressed me up in this get up – which is actually more comfortable than a dress and corset, mind you – before dropping me off here. She said a Mr. Sherlock Holmes would 'gladly'" – the way she added air quotes when saying said word was the smallest bit humorous to the detective – "watch over me until she returned."

"All this pressed down and spewing out of the mouth of a five year old girl," Holmes said flatly. He sighed, cataloguing the summary into his memory bank. "Mrs. Hudson will not approve – then again, since when have I ever cared?"

"She makes great cookies, doesn't she?" Veronica said, sprawled out like a star on the bedspread, arms and legs unwound. She was gazing at the canopy of the bed and ceiling in utmost interest, almost in a reverie, but not quite, because in the shadows, Holmes could make out how her eyes danced in the reflecting sunlight in this room as well as the kitchen. Most eyes do that, he knew, but hers were different. He just didn't know why.

Holmes moved forward. "Yes, she does," he admitted, tossing a swift, unimportant glance over his shoulder, as if he expected to see the landlady standing there to witness said admittance. He saw no one, and continued on. "But don't tell her I said so. If she catches wind that I've complimented her baking, she'll never let me live it down."

"Understood." Veronica nodded as Holmes climbed onto the bed, collapsing onto his back with an exhaled breath of relief of not pacing or sitting uncomfortably in his armchair and brooding over not being able to do anything.

After a few calm minutes of utter silence, each person locked into their own mind and wild imagination, Holmes spoke up, disrupting the peace, but in an airy, not – actually – disrupting kind of way. "I would greatly appreciate it, Miss Adler, if you would kindly remove your cap. I'm not truly that fond of formal, in all honesty."

"Wow, you are _nothing_ like mum," Veronica mused to herself, plucking in up off the top of her head. She shook free her loose curls, combing her fingers through them to rid the bundle of any knots or pins that had held it up out of sight. Holmes categorized, with a quick glance to the side, that the tendrils ended just below her shoulders when completely undone, and looked as soft as silk. Multicolored beads lay imbedded in her bangs, keeping them out of her eyes.

Her eyes…

They were a rich, chocolate brown outlined in an even darker sepia with almond shaped dots of light caramel surrounding the pupil. He would know those eyes anywhere. All of it made sense to Holmes, then; her handful of freckles, her semi-tanned complexion, her actions of sudden intrigue and study, and her extensive vocabulary…

"Veronica," he began steadily, keeping his tone even despite his racing thoughts. "Do you know where your father is?" He was dreading the answer.

As Veronica settled back down into a laying position, hands resting on abdomen, she peered over at the concerned detective, eyebrows knitted together. "What's a father?"

Holmes muttered a swift, "later" before gathering the girl into his arms and hugging her gently as he maneuvered her onto his chest. The five year old laughed at the action, crossing her arms and supporting her chin on them, gazing innocently up at Holmes in way that could only be described as admiration.

He now understood why she had been dropped off at his doorstep in the first place. He'd bet Irene wasn't even headed to the Americas.

She wanted _him_, Sherlock Holmes, consultive detective and most eccentric person in London (and most likely all of England), to care for their five year old daughter, Veronica Wisteria Adler. Holmes had not even known Irene had been with child!

_Well_, he thought, cracking a crooked grin Veronica's way. She giggled again. _That would certainly explain her uncanny absence for the past five or so years_.

They stayed like that for quite some time, making funny faces at one another, until it began to get dark outside his bedroom's window. The golden orange sun was sinking past the brick buildings and cobblestone – pavemented streets, warning passersby that night was soon to come. Beams of magenta violet and silvery grey light swirled off and around in the sky, peering through the glass in a brilliant display of colors.

Veronica soon yawned in a most undignified manner, not bothering to cover her mouth or excuse her rudeness. Holmes enjoyed it; she was raised properly. He would _despise_ having a "lady" as a child.

"Mr. Holmes?" Her voice was sleep – heavy. He let out a faint, "hmm?" to show he was listening, shifting so as to be more comfortable under her weight; despite her trimmed appearance and slender body frame, she had a good amount of meat on her bones. "Will you tell me a story?" she asked, "A real good one?"

Holmes' forehead creased, going unnoticed by the girl due to her closed eyes. "Like what?" He was being ridiculous, he was positive, and he knew he would undoubtedly regret it in the morning, but he honestly didn't care. This girl was his daughter, for goodness' sake, and albeit he knew she was going to cause and handful of trouble sooner or later, she did deserve at least a _little_ fatherly affection.

"Well…" Veronica trailed off, yawning again. "Mum always used to tell me real good stories. I had a favorite one, too. She called it 'The Cyanide Machine'. No idea why, though."

Holmes instantly knew where this was headed. "And, would you allow me to tell you _my_ interpretation?" he surmised. Veronica mumbled something unintelligible, but nodded. Holmes smiled, beginning, "Well, if I remember correctly, it started with me and my good friend, Dr. Watson, getting hired by a missing girl's parents…"

*No, Gladstone's not dead, in case you were thinking of asking. Second, I have no idea what Sherlock's mother's name is, but I figured 'Wisteria' would fit. Third, this _does_ take place after the 2009 remake, but Watson never met nor married Mary Morstan. Its not that I have anything against her, I just think that is I were to continue this, it'd be much funnier if it was Holmes, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson taking care of Veronica instead of just Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. I'm complicated. Spare me my grief. REVIEW THOU DEMON! I COMMAND OF THEE!*


	2. It's Uncanny

*Hi there! So, I made the second chapter simply for the sake of my safety. Everyone was asking me to make another, which I honestly wasn't expecting, but still. I'm pleasantly surprised that it got this much good feedback. Oh, Frabjous Day!*

Watson rapped his knuckles softly upon the wood of his friend's bedroom door, knowing not to interrupt the detective in his work without letting him know he was there – then again, Holmes was most likely aware of his presence anyway. He did always tell him his gait was very straight forward to his eardrums.

So the knocking was pretty much unneeded, Watson knew. _Old habits die hard_, he supposed.

"Holmes?" he called, "I'm in need of the cleaning solvent you stole from Mrs. Hudson the other day." Not that the poor landlady knew of the development yet. She has to put up with his antics on a daily basis – well, so does Watson, but he's gotten used to it over the years.

There was no answer. Watson knew he should be concerned for his friend's well-being, but knowing Holmes, he was either doped up on that retched tonic, asleep (which was very, very unlikely, at such an early point in the evening), or blatantly ignoring him.

"Holmes, if you've sunk as far as to ignore me out of annoyance, you're downright juvenile," Watson told him through the door, knitting his brow.

Still no answer.

_Oh, this is just ridiculous_, he thought with a huff, kneeling down on his good leg and pulling a bobby pin out of one of his trouser pockets; living with the detective for so long made him pick up some of Holmes' more reliable traits.

Sticking the pin inside the lock and twisting it about, Watson heard the click, signaling that the door was unlocked. He heaved himself to his feet, leaning on his cane for support as he jiggled the knob. The door creaked as it opened, much like the rest of the flat, and the doctor peered inside the pitch black room, trying to make out the larger objects, such as Holmes himself. It wouldn't have been the first time he would have fallen asleep on the floor.

"Holmes?" Watson said aloud to the seemingly empty bedroom. He moved slightly to the side of the doorway, casting the dim glow from the lit candles outside in, illuminating the interior to his dwindling eyesight.

There lay the great, eccentric detective, Sherlock Holmes, sprawled out underneath his crumpled sheets, lying on his stomach. He was clutching the pillow to his chest, face buried in the material, his shady brown hair mussed up and sticking more on end than usual. Watson could clearly see the sheet move in time with his steady breathing.

A smirk struck the former soldier's lips, pleasantly surprised that his friend was actually getting some rest.

"Here's your cleaning solvent, Dr. Watson," a small voice spoke up from his side, followed by a tug on his pant leg. Glancing down, he caught a flash of dark, almost black-brown curls glimmer in the silver moonlight streaming through the bedroom's windows, because, apparently, Holmes had forgotten to draw the curtains before he fell into slumber. For less than a moment, he thought a certain Woman had visited Holmes and had had yet to leave him in his peace.

It was drownt out as soon as a match soaked in water as the strangely familiar, yet dreadfully different face of a five year old girl came into view once entering the narrow shaft of light exerting from the corridor. Her face was round, with slightly high cheekbones and an angular jaw line. Her improper, unlady-like clothing and slender body structure, one that was well built but seemed created for the mere stance of agility and stealth (even in such a short, young form), reminded him of Holmes in the most peculiar of ways. Her nose was even scattered with the same blotches of freckles that Holmes currently kept hidden underneath the thin sheet of grime that seemed to constantly reside on some part of his skin and every point in every day.

The most intriguing were her eyes. As he had presumed (thanks to his friend's observation skills rubbing off on him), most people with brown hair, have brown eyes. Some kind of trait, he believed, and he should know – he was a doctor, after all. Her eyes were a very unique shade of chocolate brown, rich in color. They looked exactly like Holmes', right down to the little golden speckles, although far, far more expressive.

Watson smiled sincerely at the girl, crouching down in a way that did not agitate his leg. The girl was holding the bottle out to him, slightly nervous. He was much taller than her – taller than Holmes, even.

"Thank you, Miss…?" Watson said softly, so as to not wake his flat mate, who was shifting to get more comfortable in his mattress. His overworked brain may enjoy the rest, but his limbs were jittery and not at all used to the position they were in at the current time. Usually, Holmes was pacing back and forth or bouncing one of his legs up and down in thought as he sat in his armchair by the fire in the sitting room.

He gently took the bottle from her, causing her to take a step back, twirling a loose strand of her hair around her index finger, the other hand hidden behind her back. "Adler." Her tone had gained a higher sense of pride in telling him that. As Watson's eyebrows rose, she continued, both hands now poised on her hips in the same way Holmes did when initiating one of his famous arguments. "Veronica Adler."

"And, may I ask, Miss… Adler," Watson began, wondering why the Hell Irene Adler's daughter was standing in his friend's bedroom at this time of night. "Why –?"

" – am I in your colleauge's presence?" she politely cut him off, "Quite simple, really, doctor."

_She and Holmes' qualities are so alike, it's uncanny,_ Watson thought as Veronica clarified, "My mum was going to the Americas, and couldn't take me, so she decided to drop me off here, instead. As a short explanation, at least. There' not much I can do about it; she's probably already halfway across the Atlantic."

Watson soon caught on. "Ah… so _you're_ the reason Holmes left me to deal with my dog without a ridiculous excuse…"

"Actually, I think he said it was not only _your_ dog, doctor," Veronica reminded him, hands clasped behind her as she rocked back and forth on the heels of her feet. And innocent, knowing smile was tugging on the corners of her lips.

Watson's moustache twitched. "You're learning from _Sherlock Holmes_ at such a rueful young age?" Veronica merely shrugged, not truly caring. Watson sighed, but left her to it, exiting into the hallway and leaving Veronica to her thoughts.

~THE NEXT MORNING~

"Miss Adler? You need to wake up," Veronica heard. A her senses came into motion, she could see, beyond her closed eyelids, the golden sunlight streaming through the windows that was beaming warmly on her face; she could feel the soft grip on her bicep that was lightly shaking her, trying to rouse her awake, and her stiff limbs from the fetal position she had been in the entire night (sleeping in an armchair did have disadvantaging repercussions); she could smell the sterile cloud of medical equipment meshed together with an expensive but not too expensive cologne that was barely noticeable and a hint of aftershave.

"I don't want to wake up yet, doctor," she grumbled incoherently, burying her face in to the armrest. Throughout her slumber, the throw pillow she had gathered up for her head had ended up being squeezed to death in her arms

Veronica heard Watson chuckle. "It's nearly noon, Miss Adler. I understand Mr. Holmes would be delighted at your enthusiasm, but at the moment, he actually requested you to come upstairs. Something about the inspector. Not quite sure what it is, though."

She lifted her head slightly, eyes still closed, but showed she was listening. "Inspector Lestrade? From the Scotland Yard?"

"Indeed."

She rolled over onto her back, holding her arms up. "Can you carry me? Please?"

Watson sighed in what was supposed to be annoyance, though Veronica heard the undertone of amusement. She figured, _either he is so used to Mr. Holmes that he merely overlooks the statement, or he finds me humorous. Most likely a combination of both._

Veronica felt a pair of arms maneuver underneath her, picking her up. One of them held her to the doctor's chest, the other hand, presumably, clutching his cane. She wrapped her arms around his neck, making sure he wouldn't accidentally drop her, as she screwed open her eyes, blinking against the blinding sunlight.

"Ow…" she groaned, merely causing Watson to chuckle again.

"Holmes does almost the exact same thing when I come to open the curtains in the morning," he admitted.

"I'll take that as a compliment, doctor," Veronica told him, noting the change in scenery as they moved into the corridor, turned a corner, and started up the staircase, a limp in his step.

~IN THE SITTING ROOM~

"You're telling me, that you can't solve it?" Lestrade sounded more than just incredulous.

Meanwhile, Holmes, who was seated in his armchair and plucking his violin out of boredom, kept his gaze trained on the mantle piece, "No, inspector. I merely emphasized that its far too simple for me too possibly enlighten you on the subject in question."

"Then who on Earth did you send for?" Lestrade had become irritated at being indirectly called pigheaded. "Dr. Watson had been in here –"

"I have this guest, you see," Holmes began, silently delighted at seeing Lestrade's confused expression in his peripheral vision. "I had sent the good doctor to collect her for me. She had been sleeping most of the morning. I wouldn't put it past her if Watson had a few lingering red marks on his skin. She must've had and awfully long day yesterday…" he trailed off wistfully, his eyes beginning to glaze over in thought.

"Holmes." The detective was grateful that his medical colleague had chosen that time to walk into their conversation.

The two of them looked up, Lestrade becoming even more perplexed at the sight of Veronica in Watson's arm, Holmes rather joyful. "Ah, Watson!" he announced with an honest grin, leaping to his feet and setting his violin down on the settee. Making his way over to his friend, he took Veronica into his own arms, one wrapped around her back, the other holding her legs, cradling her comfortably to his chest.

"You best have good reason for bringing a toddler here, Holmes," Lestrade threatened, though it lacked bite.

"I am not a toddler, inspector!" Veronica insisted, shifting around in Holmes' hold to peer expectantly at the man, a glint in her eye.

"Now, now, Miss Adler, calm yourself," Holmes soothed, moving back over to his armchair. Plopping down and releasing Veronica onto his lap, he dug around in his pockets, searching for the telegram that had started this whole mess. "No need to get testy."

The inspector, however, was currently staring at Holmes and Veronica as if they were mad. Watson had seated himself in his own armchair, heaving a sigh of relief at the strain that left his leg.

"Oh, I can't help it!" The five-year old folded her arms, pursing her lips and scrunching up her nose in distaste. It made her freckles more prominent. "I'm not that young, am I?"

"Yes. But –" Holmes started explaining, seeing her face fall. He never knew a child could have such an influence on ones' self. Then again, this specific child was his own flesh and blood. He supposed that was a liable excuse. " – it doesn't truly matter what age you are. You maturity determines what stereotype you belong in."

"Am I mature?"

"For a five-year old? Certainly," Holmes told her, pulling out the letter and handing it to Veronica.

She looked over how scrawled the ink was; proof that it was a hasty write. Blotches were scattered about. It had stained the ink, but was still readable; traces of tears. The woman had been crying – bawling, really. The girl knew that it was a woman who had been in distress due to the curvature of the writing in question, how elegant it seemed against the parchment, despite the fact that her hand had been trembling quite a bit as she had authorized.

Veronica had discovered this out after merely examining the slip. Finally, she read it over; _To whomever this concerns, my beloved family broach has gone missing._ That was all it said. Apparently, the woman was far too deep in her distress to detail the broach or say where she had been the day it had supposedly gone "missing".

"She had been wearing it the entire time," Veronica claimed, handing it back to Holmes, who took it with a nod and an inwardly smug smirk that was casted toward Lestrade.

The inspector's shock of seeing the daughter of Irene Adler dissipated into confusion and some crude form of irritation. "And how do you bloody well know that?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets," Veronica said, an air of simplicity around her tone as she laid down on Holmes lap, her head thrown upside-down over the armrest to gaze knowingly at Lestrade, her hair hanging down in loose tendrils. She was smiling genuinely, pleased with the outcome of determining the answer to the case – even though it was quite a simple one. She didn't quite mind that she was "rudely" awakened anymore. In fact, excitement was bubbling through her veins. Adrenaline was her enemy. It made her aching to do something, _anything_, and that would probably be difficult to do when she was cooped up and trapped in a flat – even if it was with an eccentric detective and his medical partner in crime.

Lestrade shot her an aggravated glance, glaring pointedly at Holmes, though he ignored it for the most part, chewing uninterestedly on the tip of his pipe. Bidding his farewells, he left in a rush.

"He doesn't have a lot of time on his hands, does he?" Veronica voiced aloud, not really expecting an answer.

"No, he doesn't," Watson said, "Quite surprised he didn't send Clarke over."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, tapping his finger rhythmically against the arm of the chair.

Abruptedly, Veronica's stomach growled, demanding attention. She sat up, rubbing it to sooth its grumbles to no avail. Smirking and pocketing his pipe, Holmes hauled her up into his arms again, standing and making his way to the door.

"I'm not hungry, Mr. Holmes! I swear, I'm not!" She squirmed desperately in a chance of escape.

"Your stomach disagrees with you, Miss Adler," Holmes said sternly, though there was an undertone of amusement in his tone that only Veronica would've been able to pick up on, what with her sensitive hearing and all.

Veronica looked him straight in the eye as she heard Watson chuckle, Holmes beginning down the stairs to the kitchen. There was a gleam in them, so much like Holmes' own when he was stuck in a knot in his work. Determination.

With every ounce of dignity in her tiny little body, she upturned her chin and stuck out her tongue – as though that was a suitable retort to being carried off. How childish.

*Hey-o, peoples. So, the second chapter, eh? I have, only one comment: I'm on this massive 'Riddler binge', and I have this story in the works, and Joker and Scarecrow are in it, but they're all, say… thirteen? Yep. I probably won't put it up here, since none of my _The Batman_ stories are good enough for this website, but I just decided to let you know, in case the next chapter has some crude form of Batman dialogue or writing style or whatever. Be warned.*


	3. The Dynamic Duo

*Apologies for the lateness. I'm a lazy, terrible person, I know. This chapter features certain Italian words, but the translations are right behind them. Enjoy.*

"Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, catching the landlady's attention as he lingered by the doorway to the kitchen. The bundle of energy that was Veronica was clutching his pant leg as though it were a life source. She wasn't nervous, Holmes knew, merely timid, as were most young children when put in an environment with new people and strangers. Despite her adventurous qualities and outlandish courage, and the fact she had met Mrs. Hudson the day before, Holmes assumed it was perfectly natural for children to cling to the closest thing for safety when confronted with this 'stranger'.

Unfortunately, that 'thing' happened to be him at the moment, at least. He didn't mind; it was just that he wasn't exactly the sought out person to comfort a child. The will to do so and the act of completing it was a simple process to comprehend, he knew, but it had just never clicked in his over-active brain. Perhaps he was missing that portion

As Mrs. Hudson spotted the five-year old hidden slightly behind the man, a gracious, warm smile appeared upon her again features. "Hello there, dear." Veronica peered up at her, recognizing her almost instantaneously and calming down to a significant level. At least she no longer had a death grip on Holmes' leg. "I suppose you're the reason the inspector left in such a rush?" She didn't even sound the least bit aggravated, or even remotely surprised. In fact, she sounded amused.

'It must be something to do with Mr. Holmes,' Veronica thought knowingly. She let out a small nod of confirmation to Mrs. Hudson inquiry that also confirmed her first hypothesis to the landlady's strange amusement. 'Perhaps, Mr. Holmes puts the inspector off on a daily basis?...' She had to remember to think that over later.

At the time, though, Holmes was urging her into the kitchen. He could tell that she now felt relatively comfortable in her presence. "Your cookies are very good, ma'am," the small brunette complimented.

"Thank you so very much," Mrs. Hudson said, looking up to Holmes with a triumphant 'I-told-you-so' expression flashing in her eyes and etched into her smirk. Holmes remained stoic and without care, though Veronica felt his muscles threaten to have him do some childish form of reconciliation. "I'm guessing this is the boy from yesterday that served as you client, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson had continued.

"Indeed." Holmes nodded. Just then, Veronica's stomach grumbled for the second time in the past fifteen minutes. The detective's eyes glinted with an unshed grin, and he crouched down to her eye level as she once again unsuccessfully attempted to shush her tummy. "I told you, you were hungry," he mused. There was an underlying tone of concern beneath his facade. Veronica very well heard it, but let it go. She had no reason to bring it up, anyway. "Has your mother been feeding you properly?"

"Of course she has!" Veronica scoffed, propping her hands on her hips and tilting her chin up high in determination. She had gotten that from the both of them, that was for certain. "Well..." she trailed off, "actually, for the last few months, we've had a slight shortage. But it's absolutely nothing to worry about, Mr. Holmes. Mum can handle anything." She nodded.

Holmes nodded, as well, straightening back up and saying, "Nanny, I very kindly request of you to feed this girl something edible."

Mrs. Hudson shot him a look, which Holmes blatantly ignored. He comfortingly ruffled Veronica's hair before turning on his heel and bounding off back to his cluttered bedroom and the sitting room.

The woman set down her wash rag. "What's your name, dear? We haven't been properly introduced."

"Veronica Adler, ma'am," she greeted, moving forward into the kitchen. "Do you have anymore cookies?"

"No, sorry, love," Mrs. Hudson admitted. She began tucking a small towel into a basket.

"Where are you going, ma'am?" Veronica queried.

"The market," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I need to pick up the weekly groceries. Would you like to come along or scavenge for whatever scraps there are around here?"

Veronica brightened up significantly at the prospect of going out. "Oh, I'd love to go with you! I couldn't stand being cooped up in here all day!"

Mrs. Hudson chuckled fondly, leading the child to the front door. "Something you and Mr. Holmes certainly don't share. Doctor?" she called to the sitting room.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" he called back.

"I'm going out to the market with Miss Adler," she explained, "do tell Mr. Holmes if he comes out of his hole and decides to check on us, will you?"

"Of course," the good doctor promised.

"And don't either of you go on any cases," she ordered.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." They left directly afterwards.

Veronica was holding onto the older woman's hand as they swerved through the crowds and pairs on Baker Street and beyond. They received some strange looks from the passing peoples, due to Veronica's unsophisticated attire. Young girls and women just simply did not wear trousers. It was very nearly unheard of.

They did, however, make it down the few blocks it was to the market unscathed and with no interruption, so, there was that.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" The brunette tugged on the landlady's skirt to get her attention, positively gleeful.

"Hmm? What is it, dearie?"

"Look! Lookit!" She pointed at the nearby bakery off to the right, sniffing the air with a broad grin on her face. She clasped her hands together, practically trying to float her way over to where the delicious smell was emanating from. Mrs. Hudson could almost see the saliva dribbling from the corner of her lip.

She smiled, and took her purse from the basket in her hands. She pulled out some extra coins, putting them into the child's hands and patting her knuckles. "Put your change in your pockets, and don't get anything too sweet. If we get back to Baker Street with you on a sugar rush, Mr. Holmes will have my head. Do you understand?"

Veronica nodded rapidly, swallowing. Her mouth was watering. The scent was too good for words. "Be at the lettuce stand by one o'clock on the nose. I don't want you getting lost."

The Adler peered up at Big Ben, of which was somewhere in the distance, but still relatively visible. It read 12:01. 'Fifty-nine minutes,' she thought. 'I can do this.' "Alright, Mrs. Hudson."

"And no talking to strangers," she said, ruffling the little one's hair, much as Holmes had done. She had barely taken two steps towards the fruit vendor when Veronica had darted off to the bakery so quickly, she could've sworn that all she had seen was a blur.

She just chuckled and shook her head; Children.

Veronica was following the smell of succulent candies and buns more so than seeing where she was headed, but she watched out for passer-by to make sure she did not collide with anyone. There was no need for getting chastised by a stranger for slamming into them. It would waste precious time for getting to her food. Almost on cue, her stomach rumbled again.

'Ah, dear, dear sweets...' she thought delightfully once she had reached to counter. 'You have evaded me for far too long...'

"'Allo, dearie," the man behind the counter said in a hearty, friendly voice. Looking up, she sighted a portly man, wearing an apron stained with flour and other baking materials. He chuckled, "Lookin' just a tick puckish there, li'l Miss."

Veronica wiped away the saliva that had collected in the corner of her mouth off on her sleeve from the scent that drafted from the doorway to the kitchen through the entire, quaint little shop. "I'm sorry, sir," she apologized, fingering the coins in her hands. "Erm " She held up the gold and silver pieces. "Could you get me something that doesn't have enough sugar to keep me up all night?"

That man laughed. Veronica grinned at the sound, and had to keep a few errant giggles at bay; the laugh was near contagious! The whole air of the bakery even seemed to uplift with joy. "A 'right, Miss. I got just the thing. Hold on for a tick, will you? Y' look about ready t' explode."

Veronica just smiled, and moved off to the side to let the other customers through once the man had taken her change. Gratefully, she didn't have to wait long even if she had been tapping her foot anxiously during that time. The man soon returned, with a warm, gooey bun. It had a crisp, golden brown crust and was drizzled in fresh honey and syrup. From what Veronica could smell, it had cinnamon somewhere in it or on it, too.

She was salivating again. "Here y' go, Miss." He handed her the bun, wrapped slightly in damp parchment to keep her hands from getting overly sticky. "The syrup's real good. Got a bitin' taste t' it. Imported, straight from North America."

"I'll take you word for it, thank you, sir." The man just nodded, and Veronica raced off into the tunnels and stone corridors surrounding the large cobblestone courtyard that acted as the market place. She decided to simply meander through these structures until the time came to find Mrs. Hudson and go back to Baker Street.

She took a bite of the bun in her hands. The bread melted in her mouth and the sweet syrups tingled her taste buds. Nearly groaning at how good it tasted, she thought, 'Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.'

And all of a sudden, it was gone. Her bun had been snatched out of her hands by some fiend. "H-Hey! Give that back!" she shouted, chasing swiftly after the thief. Veronica could see that it was a young child her age, most likely a female young child, as well. She had thick waves of coppery, reddish-brown hair that had been drawn back into a loose braid that draped down to the small of her back. She had on ripped, shabby rags that served as crude forms of clothing, and, although her skin was fairly tanned, it was littered with fading bruises and scars as well as new ones. She didn't have shoes.

Veronica, being an Adler, caught up within seconds after the assault, latching firmly onto the girl's arm and planting her feet on the gravel beneath to halt their movements. The other was forced to stop, lurching forward before fiercely struggling against the brunette's fast-iron grip and keeping the bun an arm's length away.

"That's mine!" Veronica reached for the sweet to now avail.

"Lasciami in pace!"Leave me alone! 'Ah,' Veronica thought. 'She's Italian. This is not good. Does she even understand English?'

"Io, se si da di nuovo il mio cibo!"I will, if you give me back my food! Veronica bargained.

"No!" The girl quirmed in her grip.

Veronica was about to turn to her last resort, which would mean she would have to think out a quickly accessible plan to manipulate the girl into giving her the bun physically instead of verbally, but the unexpected then occured, less than a second after the other had declined her offer. A street dweller sprinted past them, from the corridor in front of their own where their miniature brawl was taking place, coming from the right to the left. A woman screamed out, "Come back here with my purse, you heathen!" Veronica hadn't heard the sounds of the commotion since she had been so... "preoccupied".

Her thoughts twisted on a dime. She let the other go, coincedentally causing the redhead to lose her balance and fall on her bottom with a squeak. The brunette, in turn, immediately set after the man in a long sprint, without a second thought, and without a sound.

The Italian girl scrambled to her feet, rushing over and peering around the corner. Veronica had caught up with the larger thief near the end of the corridor, and was duking it out with defensive blocks and precision-aimed attacks that put herself to shame. Glancing back the other way, she saw the woman who's purse had been stolen, and scurried over to her, hastily stuffing the bun in her hands as she attempted to regain control of her lungs and regualte her breathing from running after the thief. "'Old this, per favore, grazie." Please, thank you. With that, she spun on her heel, muddy skirt twirling about her shins, to race back over to the fighting duo a ways over. She didn't hear the woman yell for her to come back.

The man had his back to the redhead. It seemed as though Veronica had planned it that way, to distract the man so as she could aid her attempts at subdoing him. The Italian leapt onto his back, wrapping her slim arms around his thick, pudgy neck and locking her hands together like a padlock. She succeeded in admitting a choke hold that, usually, only a full-grown man could accomplish.

Veronica moved in as the other had him gasping for air and scratching at her arms. She struck her fist against the wrist holding the woman's purse, slipping it into her own as his mouth gaped open in pain. Veronica had bruised it badly, but not fractured it. She then elbowed the man hard in the ribcage, knowing it must have caused a significant amount of damage. His face began to turn violet from the exertion it took to try to breathe. The Italian wasn't letting up. Veronica then swung her leg out to kick his knee cap, making him collapse to the ground. The girl slid off his back before she was crushed, and they both watched as he shook spasmatically before renderring unconscious. They knew they hadn't killed him. He had just passed out from pain and shortness of breath.

The girl backed up some, wiping off her front. There was grime on the man's coat that had gotten stuck there. Neither of them were breathing particularly roughly, despite the circumstances it was as if nothing had happened.

Veronica gave the girl a look as they turned around, beginning to calmly walk back over to the near-hysteric woman that was hurrying over to them as fast as her shoes would carry, the purse in hand. "Parli inglese?" Do you speak English?

The girl smiled at her, a bit sheepishly. "Si." She nodded in confirmation. "And I apologize for the bun, Miss." She bowed her head slightly. "It gets awfully hungry out here..."

"Why aren't you at a workhouse?" Veronica asked.

The girl scowled, scrunching up her nose. "Work'ouse... I escaped from d'ere a while ago. Its incompetent. I could not stand anod'er minute in that blasted place." She threw up a hand to emphasize her dislike.

Veronica tapped her chin. "Well, after my sitter and I leave, we could bring you to the better part of town. Perhaps you could be taken in by some of the other Italians around. You wouldn't have to steal for food anymore." She then tilted her head. "What's you name?" She outsretched her hand. "I'm Veronica Adler."

The girl took it. "Alexandra Velecioni." They shook. "It is nice to meet you, Miss Adler."

"Call me Veronica."

"Then, you may call me Alexa."

The woman reached them soon enough, sighing in relief. "My goodness, are you two mad? You could have been killed!"

"We knew exactly what we were doing, ma'am," Veronica assured, handing her back her purse. By that time, a few people had come to investigate the disturbance. "Now, however, I must flee. I would never hear the end of it if I was put in the papers for this."

"Oh, for your troubles." The woman began rummaging through her purse after shoving the cooled bun into Alexa's hands. The Italian quickly handed it back to Veronica, so as to not get on her bad side for stealing her food. The brunette just chuckled, and gave it back, motioning for her to take a bite. The woman then pulled out a few more worth's of change, and gave an equal sum to the both of them. "Now run along, and get yourselves a lolly or so." She shooed them off. "And for Heaven's sake, don't do something like that again!"

Snickering, the duo snuck back around out into the market place without attracting so much as a lick of attention. "Come on." Veronica waved Alexa after her as she headed back over to the buzzing bakery. "We'll get you some nutrience. You look starved."

"I feel starved," Alexa stated, rubbing her tummy. It was hidden beneath her faded scarlet blouse, but Veronica could tell that it was caved in.

She sighed in her thoughts. 'Only thirty-two minutes to go?' Her mind's eye sounded almost remorseful in her head. 'Not nearly enough time...'

*Long, isn't it? A tragedy, that is... bah. (waves hand) Whatever. The next and final chapter after this will, hopefully, be up soon. I've got to find the strength to actually get out of bed since school's out for the summer. Sleeping-in time... yes... Review please, but don't flame that you hate me for not updating sooner. That would be ridiculous.* 


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